“Maybe not exactly a good time,” I said, “but it beats sitting in the front room, reading the Times and watching the clock take your life away. I’m scared a lot, but I’m alive more than other people too.”
“Like snakes,” Agnes said sympathetically. “You know what they can do, and that’s why you want to be with them, show other people you can be that near death and like it.”
“Kindred spirits,” I said, helping her up.
She stood looking into my battered face with an amused smile. I kissed her nose.
“Your name really Sudds?” I asked as we started down the beach, walking on stones to keep from leaving prints.
“Would anyone make up a name like that?” she said. “It’s Sudds. In my act, I’m Helene of Nepal, whose parents were killed by bandits during an exploring trip of Tibet. I was brought up by snake worshippers and became their princess, but I found their sacrifices of travelers to the snake god repellent and escaped to a Jesuit missionary.”
“And people buy that?”
“No,” she admitted, “but they like to pretend they do or make fun of it. They mainly like to see someone doing something they wouldn’t dare do. That’s the story of the circus.”
We kept walking, did a little talking and a lot of thinking, but the thinking wasn’t getting me anywhere. If I went back to the circus with Agnes, it would probably be knee deep in state police by nightfall. If I went to Los Angeles, I’d have nothing to work with. I’d be picked up in a few hours. If I went to Mirador, I wouldn’t even get a chance to explain.
After an hour of walking, we came to a few houses and a pier. Not much of a pier, a concrete breaker worn away by the ocean. There was a path up from the beach and we took it, holding hands and hiding the cuffs under my baggy jacket sleeve. We were two ridiculously dressed lunatics in love if anyone saw us. If our description had gotten to this town already, there would be no denying it. Our disguise was only for the indifferent or uninformed. I had a few dollars in my wallet, not enough to buy our way out of this but enough for coffee and a few sinkers.
The houses, old adobe and cracking wood, came closer and closer together until we got to what passed for downtown. The smell of the ocean helped make the place seem more quaint than decaying. It certainly wasn’t full of activity.
A few signs in store windows let us know that we were in Quiggley, California. The grocery store and post office, which also had a soda fountain, displayed a sign that told us Quiggley was “The Fifth Leading Producer of Artichokes in Southern California.”
A few farm kids were sitting at the fountain drinking Green Rivers. They looked at us, poked each other, and made it clear that they were holding back giggles.
“Finish up and off you go,” said a woman behind the counter. She was gray from hair to smock and as thin as string. With a see-what-the-world-has-done-to-me little smile, she asked us what we wanted. I ordered coffee for both of us and some doughnuts.
“Got some fresh-made pecan rolls,” said the woman.
“Sounds fine,” I said, giving Agnes a loving look to account for our tightly held hands.
“Renting a place down by the beach?” the woman said, moving slowly to get our order.
“Right,” I said. “Just a few days. Place a few miles up the coast. We just strolled down to see what Quiggley was like.”
“And?” asked the woman, reaching to turn on the radio behind her next to a metal sign with a picture of a smiling girl holding up a Coke bottle to the sun.
“It’s nice,” said Agnes, looking around the store.
The place was old, cluttered, and full of the smell of moist wood. I liked it. The radio suddenly warmed up, and Dr. I.Q.’s voice came on with a question: “For ten silver dollars,” he said, filled with enthusiasm, “where is the Island of Kwato?”
“New Guinea,” said Agnes, trying to figure out a way of splitting her pecan roll with one hand. “There’s a little blue snake in Kwato that turns itself upside down to get its vemon out.”
“That a fact?” said the woman behind the counter. Agnes dipped the whole pecan roll in the coffee.
“The Caribbean,” said a woman on the radio, and Dr. I.Q. responded with his, “I’m awfully sorry. The Island of Kwato is part of New Guinea, but a box of Milky Ways to that lady.”
A couple of women came in to buy stamps, and I urged Agnes to hurry. She did, and I left half a buck on the counter. We didn’t wait for change.
“See you,” I said pleasantly as we walked around a display of Uneeda Biscuits for ten cents a box.
The gray woman and the stamp customers looked over at us, and I heard one of their voices say, “Strange, Walter says spies are …” Behind them, Dr. I.Q. started a tongue twister that began, “My mother’s monkey makes …”
“I’m still hungry,” said Agnes as we went down the street. We would soon be out of the town, and I had no plan, just some wild ideas that made no sense. In short, my usual state. A brown car pulled around a corner and headed toward us. There were a few cars on the main street of Quiggley which was, not surprisingly, called Main Street. This car, however, had a little light on the top.
We were standing near a lawn in front of a small wooden building marked RR Station. I didn’t know if it was still in use or what call Quiggley had for a railroad, but I pulled Agnes toward the door. It opened easily, and we stepped in. I looked back through the dingy window of the door to watch the police car go past.
Someone was in the station. I didn’t look. Instead, I walked to the blackboard I spotted at the corner of my eye, pulling Agnes with me. It told what trains were coming and going through Quiggley. There weren’t many. The next one out was to Phoenix at three in the morning.
“If anyone asks,” I whispered, “we’re going to Phoenix and we’ve already got our tickets.”
“And no luggage,” said Agnes. We sat on a wooden bench.
I looked down as if I were tired and saw blue linoleum squares with white flecks. The linoleum was scuffed and worn through to dirty wood in spots. The walls were covered with plaster put on in uneven layers and painted over gray-white like a strip mine.
There was a young man behind the ticket booth in the corner. From what I could see of him, he had a dark mustache and hair Wildrooted to submission. The black lettering on the pebbled glass above his booth had worn or been scratched away so that only “TI KE S” remained. The radiators were old, ornate, and painted black. A black-on-white sign above the door we had come through said, “No Loitering.” There were some gray steel lockers and a few windows painted over at the top in flecked black. The wooden benches were high-backed. The garbage can in the corner was full, as was the ashtray a few feet from us.
We weren’t the only customers waiting. An Oriental family shared the station and drew most of the looks of the ticket taker. The father and the pregnant mother looked young. She was lying on the bench with her eyes closed. The father, a thin man in a denim jacket, looked at us with a small apologetic smile. All four of the kids had runny noses. The oldest was about seven. The father clutched a small radio in his arms.
One of the kids walked over to Agnes and me. He was about six and carrying a crumpled Captain Marvel comic book. His black hair tumbled over his eyes.
“We’re Chinese,” he said, “not Japanese.”
“Great,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Miles,” he said and then whispered, “but my real name is Tetsuya.”
I wasn’t sure of my Oriental names, but I didn’t think Tetsuya was Chinese. What he was, was the product of his father and mother’s real fear. They were on the run and probably didn’t know where they were heading, as long as it was away from California and the camps where Japanese-Americans were being herded.
“My real name is Tobias,” I said, holding out my left hand. My right hand was otherwise occupied holding Agnes and hiding handcuffs.
Miles took my hand, shook it, and informed us that a nickel was stuck in the public telephone in the corner. His brothers and sister climbed the benches and gradually made their way to us. I wondered, while exchanging silly looks with them, what would happen when Agnes or I had to go to the rest room. At one point, Agnes glanced at the ladies’ room. I ignored her and my own bladder and played with the kids. The father looked worried, and I had the impression that the pregnant mother was only pretending to be asleep.